


Locked Away

by benedictedcumberbatched



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Detox, Gen, Rehabilitation, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, padded cell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-26 23:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1706831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benedictedcumberbatched/pseuds/benedictedcumberbatched
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Sherlock Holmes' dying mind palace during HLV, he appears in a padded cell. Mind palace's are designed based off places the person has been. Why was Sherlock Holmes in a padded cell in the past?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Locked Away

**Author's Note:**

> As always nothing belongs to me.
> 
> Note: I am aware this may be wildly inaccurate treatment.

His screams echoed down the hallway as the straps were tightened at his back. He struggled against the fabric holding his arms tight against him and his legs kicked out at the men in white coats. The door was quickly unlocked before he was placed inside, the once white fabric now a dirty yellow color from age and the uncontrolled bladders of past residents. His screams subsided as he curled up on his side, the shakes taking over his body. He hated this room, he hated everything it represented, he hated what took place here, and he hated the thoughts and fragments of memories that filtered in as he sobered up. 

This was drastic this time, he knew, even by Mycroft’s standards. The last two stints at a rehab facility had been for naught as he had relapsed in less than a year both times, the first time he lasted six months and the last time he had only lasted two. This time there was no screwing around; there was nothing he could do until he had become lucid enough to cooperate. Stupid Mycroft had even got the police involved, a detective constable, Lestrade- he thought- responding to take him in this time. Of course he had met the man before, having stumbled upon a crime scene Lestrade had been responding to and of course, he had rambled off who the dead man was and why he had died and who had killed him. He hadn’t been sober at the moment and while the detective had used Sherlock’s analysis, he had told him that if he wanted a future with them, he had to get clean. Mycroft had been aware, had been called in and well, here he was. 

It was not his fault that he had lashed out and began throwing things. There was only so much stupid Sherlock could take. He could feel the high wearing off and he was getting antsy. The sweats began, and Sherlock wished for nothing more than to take off the jacket and strip. His clothes itched, so he just continued to lie there, waiting for the high to wear off. 

He had been forced to give up the heroin upon entering the facility, cold turkey. However, Sherlock, brilliant man that he was, knew better and had managed to make some interesting connections with other patients who were in for other things than a drug addiction that spanned a good ten or fifteen years. The pills had been easy to get but he had slipped up and ended up getting caught while high. Here he was now. 

Sherlock closed his eyes as he curled in on himself to try and sleep as his breathing slowed down and the gravity of his situation hit him. 

He woke a few hours later as the door to the cell opened and he looked bleary-eyed at the orderly who placed a tray of food and a cup of water before him. “Please…” he croaked, struggling weakly against his bonds. The orderly stepped into the room and unbound Sherlock before leaving and shutting the door behind him. 

Sherlock flexed his fingers and stretched his arms to get the circulation going again. He picked at the bread and drank some of the water. He sat for a moment before his stomach suddenly cramped. He scrambled for the bucket by the door and heaved, and heaved. 

Gasping, Sherlock fell back, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his outfit. He sagged as exhaustion hit him, the emptiness of his stomach irritating, as he wanted nothing more than to eat but knowing his couldn’t without adding to the bucket. Sherlock lay back down, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them to keep warm. He knew why he did this to himself, kept himself dosed up, but he didn’t know why he did it so frequently. He remembered a method his brother had taught him and closed his eyes, drawing forth his old childhood fort, more like a pirate ship, where he spent time with Redbeard. 

It was the Irish Setter that he locked away in a room of his newly formed mind place. The circumstances of his beloved dog’s death still raw over a decade later. Next came the use of heroin to control his mind, to still the raging thoughts and emotions that only got worse the more he continued in his education. Remembering those emotions, they came back as a trickle at first, the leaky faucet of his mind betraying him. Despite stowing Redbeard away, the pain and heartbreak of losing his only friend became raw and an open wound. Tears leaked from the corner of his eyes, trailing along his nose and down his cheeks onto the dirty padding below him.   
Then came the taunts and teasing and physical beatings from his peers, the names of freak and idiot and the curses and the feel of feet and fists striking him on the play yard. Residual humiliation and confusion flooded through his system. A low moan mixed with the ache of hunger and of his body had Sherlock curling in on himself.

His chest heaved and sobs wracked at his throat, making it sore and raw. Long suppressed emotions, memories, and thoughts rushing back one after the other, the constant teasing from his brother, feelings of inadequacy, of embarrassment, of bringing shame to his family and, of letting them down with his drug use. The overdose that had finally sent him to this facility after his run-in with the police sent him too close to death for comfort. He was not ready to die; his brain would not let him die even if he were lying on a slab. It was all too much to bear. The rapid cycling of his mind and how it worked was the reason he had turned to heroin in the first place. Now it was the reason he was in this place. 

It wasn’t until a day later that the men in white appeared again and gave him a once over. They deemed him lucid enough to return to his room but had limited his contact with those he had grown accustomed to seeing and nicking pills from. Sherlock sat propped against the white wall of his room, his hands steepled beneath his chin, his eyes closed as he locked the door to that horrid padded cell and with it, everything that had occurred there.


End file.
